“Hello?” Brynna asked, clicking on the light. “Anyone here?”
There was a fresh pile of folded laundry on her bed, but everything else was the same, everything else in its place—except her tablet. It was propped up against her pillows, longwise, as though it would spring to life with an ad for new sheets at any moment. Brynna licked her lips and checked over her shoulder as fists of dread crashed into her chest. Staying as far as she could from the device, she leaned over and swished the screen on then blew out the breath she was holding.
The page displayed was AskAnything.com, a website where Brynna and some of her friends posted random homework and general questions that were answered by a sea of geniuses or wisecrackers somewhere in the cyber-universe. She used the site regularly and let out a wild little giggle, knowing she must have left the site open—until she snatched the tablet up. Someone had asked a question:
QUESTION FROM: BRYNBE51: How long can someone survive adrift at sea?
The question had been asked from her account.
She scanned, finding a litany of answers.
DJQUIMBY: Depends on the H20 temp
FXRCR: 3 days w/o fresh water. 1 month w/. Unless theres sharx! : O
D24MJ: Do u have a raft/life jacket? If yes, much longer.
SPARKLESUZY: Sharks! Ahhh! :)
YES2ME: Hope you kno how 2 swim!
ERICANSHAW: You tell me.
NINE
Brynna blinked at the screen, feeling her stomach churn. She swallowed, this moment, this life of hers dropping into slow motion as the world went on at a whirring pace around her. Someone was watching her. Someone was haunting her.
Before Erica’s death—just every once in a while—there had been a niggling jealousy that stabbed at the back of her mind. When Erica swished by Brynna in the pool, overtaking her at the last second to win. When Erica mastered a stroke the first time out while Brynna struggled to perfect it. How everyone happily revered and assumed Erica’s first place status and Brynna’s second.
She would always cheers to Erica, sipping her drink while Erica beamed and people complimented her. At first, it was just the fun of the celebration, the party—a little slug of beer to raise or something fruity and red to mask the alcohol taste. Brynna would have a few sips and set the cup aside when the sting of jealousy subsided. But week after week, the sting started to last, and the booze helped to soothe it. But still, she would stop drinking, determined to beat Erica the next time. She knew she could. She knew she deserved it.
Not jealous, Brynna thought. Competitive. Competitive, not murderous.
The last thought rang hollow in her mind. She had a vague memory of something she learned in sophomore biology about how the brain could trigger things—thoughts, desires—and the body could act on them. Afterward, the actions would be expunged from the person’s memory. Lacunar amnesia, Brynna recalled. Selective memory loss.
Suddenly, her mind’s eye was flooded with memories: the sick slap of flesh hitting water. The underwater sound of thrashing. The way Erica’s hair felt—slippery and fine—as it slid through Brynna’s fisted hand. The pale, waxy look of Erica’s skin as her body floated downward into the depths of the Pacific Ocean, so calm, so peaceful, her slightly parted lips, and eyes, wide open, staring at Brynna with the moonlight reflected in them.
How would I know what Erica’s hair felt like? How would I know what she looked like? I have this image of her—Brynna closed her eyes, trying to stamp the ghastly image out—where did it come from?
Heat surged up the back of Brynna’s neck, and she was racing through the room, clawing her way to the bathroom. She doubled over and vomited, tears and sweat commingling and dripping from her chin as she heaved.
The images in her head came from her dreams, because once Erica hit the water, Brynna couldn’t see her anymore. Could she? She fell against the wall, her back sliding until she landed on her butt with a hard thump. She could feel the cold tile shoot a chill up her spine as she thought about the dreams where Erica was floating down below her. Was it a dream or a deeply hidden memory suddenly shaking loose? Brynna pushed up to her knees and vomited again.
At some point, Brynna’s mother rushed through the bedroom door and fawned over her, coaxing her into her pajamas and tucking her into bed. Her mother was still in her paint-covered smock, and when she leaned down to rest her palm on Brynna’s forehead, Brynna breathed in the heady, earthy scent of the paints and the bitter bite of turpentine, the smells that always comforted her as a child.
“I told you sitting around in that wet bathing suit was going to get you sick.” Her mother leaned over her, pressing a cool, damp washcloth to Brynna’s forehead. “I thought you’ve been looking a little pale lately, a little off.”
Brynna nodded and looked away.